


Wear the Wounds of Your Demise

by brittaniethekid



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 09:51:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittaniethekid/pseuds/brittaniethekid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-season 3. Sam keeps hunting without his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wear the Wounds of Your Demise

**Author's Note:**

> Another short coda I wrote in 2009 after the season 3 finale. Inspired by 10 Years' song "Picture Perfect (In Your Eyes)".

He lowers his hand. The stench of sulfur is rank in the air mixed with the smells of burning flesh and blood. He thinks he’ll never get used to the smell. He hopes he never does.

His brother has been dead for months and nothing he could do would get him upright again. So he walks the world alone and keeps on fighting like he said he would. He figures that’s the least he can do when so many other promises now lay broken at his feet.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees green. When he opens them again, the brown of death and decay. If he never had to open his eyes again, it would be a blessing. 

He walks out of the café and back to the car. It’s covered in dust from the road. If his brother were beside him now, he can imagine the things he’d say. He assures the air he’ll wash it soon, don’t worry. He drives out of the city leaving the lights and sounds behind him. He always liked the quiet of the country best but, lately, it’s been too quiet – it reminds him too easily that he’s still alone. 

The back roads that crisscross the country under the roar of the engine are his only company. He only speaks when he needs answers, he voice rough and bristled from disuse. He used to be able to get anyone to divulge anything but they look at him now and close up. He understands that if he scares _himself_ this much, he can’t imagine what they’re seeing.

The hardest part of his life now are the motel rooms. Even though they’re all different, they all hold the same memories for him. He grew up in these rooms; _they_ grew up in these rooms. He walks in the undistinguished room and drops his bags on the bed. He sits with his face cradled in his hands for so long the tips of his fingers prickle and turn to ice. The things those very hands have done since his brother died – no, was taken – would never be approved.

He thinks back to his dad.

The gruff man always looked at him with disapproval even if his brother said otherwise. He can’t imagine the things he’d tell him now. He had told his brother to kill him if this happened. But he’s no longer here to carry out their father’s wish, no matter how many prayers and wishes are whispered in the dark.

Another night on the road takes him to another nameless town with a hundred nameless faces. He kills the thing with ease, doesn't even need his mind tricks. It’s not as satisfying this way. Even though he hates it, he wants the smell of blood on his clothes when he gets back in the car to drive away. No thanks, no money, just satisfaction. If he can’t even get that, he wonders what he is doing this all for.

For him. 

His brother told him to keep going – take care of his car, take care of himself. The last words he said that haunt his mind are only alleviated when he closes his eyes to see green. The green of soft grass, of summer, of happiness and love. 

He shakes his head and focuses himself back to the road.


End file.
